Hopeless
by Spinner Dolphin
Summary: Sequel to Lost. It's been eighteen years, now, and Numair has no way to get home, no, not after what he's done. Here be spoilers for HP 6. Still AU


A/N: OKAY. IF **YOU HAVEN'T READ THE SIXTH HARRY POTTER**, TURN BACK NOW!

Assuming you read HBP, or just want to be spoiled. :p So, don't yell at me.

Well, I'm convinced that Snape's still good... or, at least, not evil. -Swims down river in egypt- De Nile is lovely this time of year. Anyway, you might agree or disagree about Snape, but in this universe, _Numair_ is still good. It's still defiantly AU, but I like to have it As Cannon As Possable.

**This is a sequel to "Lost" so if you haven't read that this will not make any sense. **

Disclaimer: I don't own Numair or the Harry Potter world. Numair and Daine andany other mentioned Tortall people belong to Tamora Pierce, and the Harry Potter world, characters and events belong to J K Rowling and...whoever makes the movies. But it's not me!-sheepish-

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You now can't yell at me for spoiling you. :-P  
**Last warning:** here be** Spoilers**

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Of course they didn't come.

Of course something went wrong.

Naturally, because everything goes wrong for Numair Mithros-cursed Samalìn, who will be stuck pretending to be Severus Snape, Murderer for the rest of his bloody _life_.

_Of course he had to go and kill Dumbledore! _

Numair buried his face in his hands.

Numair would've gladly died. He would've. He was planning to, just at that one glance of the dying Albus.

But Albus had begged him. Begged him to kill him.

_I have a plan_, the old man's eyes had comforted, _don't worry, it'll be alright. _

It wasn't Legilimency, or connection magic, as it was called at home. It was just a look in his eyes, an imperceptible nod of his head.

And so he'd killed him, hating what he was doing, and eliminated his chance to go home.

Now he was stuck in a damp little hut with no one but _Wormtail_ for company, on the run.

_Again! _

If it wasn't an emperor, it was the minister, this time. Only, only he couldn't survive using street magic, because he was supposed to hate Muggles.

_Half Blood Prince, indeed, _he scoffed. He'd found Snape – the real Snape's – old potions book a year before – the year of the disastrous Occulmency lessons. Those lessons had been _infuriating_ – Potter was so like Daine, but unlike his Daine, Potter didn't have the sparkle, the _want_ to learn. So Potter couldn't see them, all of his "Numair" memories went into the in the pensive, along with one of the memories from the real Severus, should Potter go into the Pensive. How lucky that Potter hadn't stayed in the pensive till the end of the memory, and come across his life at the royal palace, or of his and Daine's first kiss. That's why he had been so furious, although he'd disguised the fury as a cover-up for embarrassment.

He had all of the real Severus' memories, of course. The Dark Lord – old habits were hard to break; Voldemort had told him to call him the Dark Lord in their first meeting, the slime ball – had thought his new identity, provided by Dumbledore, amusing. He'd given him the memories from the real Snape and told his followers, mockingly, "So you see? Let it be known that Numair Salmalìn is no more. He is Severus Snape, a wizard, now, named for the one those mudblood-loving fools killed!"

And so, last year, when Potter had, for a moment, broken into his mind, he'd seen Severus's memories, not Numair's.

Well. Except for the first one. His father had yelled at his mother a lot. He'd pulled himself together, after that, though, by calling up memories that were not his own.

It was easier to trick someone than to shove them out of the mind. He'd let the other two memories flit past as he'd gathered himself to throw Potter out. It had worked, that was all that had mattered.

So he knew about the potions book, through the real Severus' memories, and could pretend that it was his own.

He had been furious when Potter (_ah, just like his Daine, he missed her so! How it hurt to see her beloved qualities in that hated boy_) had used a curse on Draco. He'd had no idea how to stop it with conventional spells so he'd just used his own magic. Well, alright, it wasn't really his magic, it was a bit of old arcane stuff he'd found in an old book, back at home (in an old book of Songspells. He'd never gotten to finish it). It didn't matter though– he'd just wanted Draco to live.

As per that damned vow he'd taken.

Mithros curse it all, he wanted to go home. Home, where everything was okay. Home where he was fighting for something he believed in. Home where he had comforting friends, real friends, and his Daine who could make him laugh even in the worst of times.

"Are you _pining_, Samalìn?"

Numair looked up and glared furiously at Wormtail, who reminded him so much of a Tristan Staghorn with less power it was rather terrifying. Wormtail had known his real name from the start, and rather liked to flaunt it.

"It's Snape, you know," he sneered, extra venom in his voice today. _I could turn you into an apple tree, too, and you couldn't do a Mynoss-blessed thing about it, because my magic is different than yours. _

"My _friends_ killed Snape." Smirked Wormtail.

"Well then, should I be _grateful_ to you for giving me an identity?" Numair reigned in his voice, lowering it to a threatening purr. It was scarier, he had learned from the students' reactions, to whisper threats than to shout them. It made them more sincere, somehow.

As expected, the rat backed off at the threat, squeaking about the 'dark lord' and 'you'll be dead if you kill me.'

Uh _huh._

Funny, Numair thought without humor, that he's like so Staghorn and he's responsible for the death of a stag animagus.

Life was just full of irony, wasn't it?

He wanted to go _home_. He wanted to be Numair again, he wanted to laugh again.

It wasn't just his friends, now. Oh, they'd hate him. Definitely, no doubt about that. It was just the fact that it was _home_. He could walk through Chorus, freely, could mount a horse (he knew he was far gone – he couldn't even ride, though he missed the horses nearly most of all) and just go anywhere without having to worry about the Dark Mark. Or he could – he could just _be_ a mage and not have to worry about hiding it.

And now Albus was dead, by his hand no less. The little candle of hope guttered and died.

He was never going home.

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For those of you who skipped the AN: A) sorry if I spoiled you. But I gave you two warnings. B) if this didn't make sence, if you're wondering "Why is Numair in HP land?"... -hits with fishtank scrubby-thing- I told you to go read "Lost"!


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